A Holmesian Carol
by Stutley Constable
Summary: The title explains all.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any characters associated with the works of either Sir Arthur Conan Doyle or the works of Charles Dickens. This story was done just for the fun of it. Not for profit.

**Summary:** Sherlock Holmes has been less than cheerful since his return to London. He needs a bit of an attitude adjustment.

**A Holmesian Carol**

**Stave I**

**Moriarty's Ghost**

Moriarty was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt about that. Sherlock Holmes had thrown him from the precipice of Reichenbach Falls himself and the word of Holmes was good upon 'Change, for anything he chose to put his hand to.

Professor Moriarty was as dead as a coffin-nail.

Mind! I do not wish to go against the common tradition laid down by our ancestors in their wisdom. They long ago established that a door-nail is the most appropriate example for that particular simile. In my humble opinion, however, a coffin-nail is the deadest piece of ironmongery in the trade and Moriarty was as cruel and hard a soul to have ever walked the blessed Earth. His name should never be associated with so homely and warm an object as a door-nail, no matter how dead it may be. You will therefore permit me to repeat, emphatically, that Moriarty was as dead as a coffin-nail.

Holmes knew he was dead? Of course. How could it be otherwise? As I have already told you, he threw Moriarty from the precipice himself and there is no way, short of divine intervention, that any living thing could survive such a plunge as that. I'm afraid that Moriarty's odds of such intervention were only slightly better than a snowball's chance in Hell. We must assume this for there is always a chance at redemption.

The mention of Moriarty's demise brings me back to the original point. Moriarty was dead. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate. If we had not been perfectly convinced of Holmes's own demise at the falls, there would have been nothing remarkable about his return to London three years later in the guise of an old book seller.

Oh! A hard driven, acute intellect was Holmes's. Superior in every way to most of his fellow men; and yet his heart was rarely warmed by those gentler stirrings that make man such as is second only to angels. He viewed emotions in the same manner as a craftsman might view a grain of sand in the gears of a fine watch or a flaw in a powerful magnifying lens. Things to be avoided.

And so it was that Mr. Sherlock Holmes could be found on the eve of Christmas in his rooms at Baker Street. He was sitting in his armchair before a dying fire and smoking another ounce of shag frowning over a case when a knock came at his door.

"Come in, Watson," Holmes called mechanically.

Dr. John Watson pushed open the door and peered through the gloom and tobacco smoke at Holmes. His pleasant smile diminished slightly at perceiving his old friend's mood.

"Merry Christmas, Holmes," Watson said as cheerfully as he could muster in light of his friend's reticence.

"Christmas?" Holmes puffed out another cloud of smoke. "What is Christmas to me, Watson?"

"Holmes?" Watson inquired with a note of alarm.

"Do not be so shocked, Watson," Holmes replied without taking his eyes from the fire. "Crimes do not stop for dates and holidays, no matter how important they may seem to the common mind."

"You are on another case, then?" Watson asked apprehensively. He knew that Holmes had been quite busy of late. Only recently had Holmes cleared up what he called a "little matter of state" for his brother Mycroft. Before that, it had been something for a jewel broker. And before that, there had been the matter of a certain Mr. Handicroft in Sussex.

"Another case," Holmes confirmed. "What at first blush seemed a minor thing, but it has certain characteristics that I find intriguing."

"Well," Watson said, his spirits finally faltering altogether. "I had come to invite you to dinner tomorrow, Holmes. My nephew and his wife have asked me and they were obliging enough to extend the invitation to you as well."

"Your nephew?" Holmes asked finally stirred from his contemplation of the case.

"Mary's nephew, actually," said Watson with a tinge of sorrow. "We grew quite fond of each other before..."

"Yes," Holmes said, not without sympathy for his old friend. "I'm afraid, Watson, that this case can not wait for Christmas dinner. Please give my best to your relations. Would you ask Mrs. Hudson to send up some fresh tea on your way out?"

Slightly stung by Holmes's cool manner and abrupt dismissal, Watson straightened and, swallowing the harsh words he felt rise in his mind, he said, "I am sorry to have intruded on you at this time, Holmes. Never the less, I do wish you a merry Christmas. If you should find time, dinner will be at seven o'clock. You would be most welcome, I assure you."

"If I have the case solved by then; I shall certainly attend. Good evening, Watson."

A few minutes after the door closed behind his old flat-mate Holmes's contemplations were again interrupted by a knock on the door, followed by Mrs. Hudson entering with a tray and tea service. She settled the tray on the small table at Holmes's elbow and poured a cup of the steaming brew for him.

"Will there be anything else, Mr. Holmes?" she inquired sweetly.

"Thank you, no, Mrs. Hudson," Holmes replied with his eyes closed.

"I just wished to remind you that I will be visiting my sister tomorrow evening and you will need to see to your own supper, Mr. Holmes."

"My own supper?" demanded Holmes sharply.

"Yes," Mrs. Hudson said a little more sharply than she had intended. "You know I attend dinner at my sister's every year on Christmas. I'm baking a pie this year."

Holmes sighed heavily. He cast a cool, hard look on her.

"Very well," he growled. "I suppose since it is only once a year you must."

"It is Christmas, Mr. Holmes," the landlady chided the detective.

"A poor excuse for forcing a man to attend to his own victuals." Holmes was not swayed by her sentiment. "I will expect a more than usually good dinner upon the next evening."

With the offended dignity of a cat sprayed with water, Mrs. Hudson strode stiffly from the room.

On into the evening Holmes worked his mind. He sipped from the cooling tea and nibbled occasionally upon a biscuit and smoked ever more of his special blend of shag. He made notes and paced the floor. There must be some solution! The clues were all quite clear yet the one crucial detail eluded him. Why? Finally he settled into his chair again to light yet another pipe. He was so engaged when the front bell rang. It was quite late. He knew that it must be a caller for him. Holmes waited for Mrs. Hudson to rouse herself but the ring at the bell came again. Upon the third ring Holmes strode to his door and flung it open. He waited in hopes that either the caller would depart or that the landlady would answer it. Instead there came another pull at the cord. With gritted teeth Holmes descended seventeen stairs and, stepping up to the door, he tore it open. No one stood upon the mat. Indeed, there was no sign that anyone had stood there for some hours, as the snow lay quite heavily in the remnants of Watson's boot-prints. Holmes blinked. He examined the bell cord finding that a skim of frost had accumulated upon the brass handle hanging from the stout cord. Tentatively he pulled it down and heard the bell chime lightly. He was still contemplating the cord when Mrs. Hudson's voice broke in on his thoughts.

"Mr. Holmes?" she said. "What are you doing? Is everything all right?"

"Hm?" Holmes said, snapping out of his reverie. "I thought... Never mind, Mrs. Hudson. Sorry to have disturbed you. It was just..."

"You've been working too hard lately, Mr. Holmes," the elderly little woman said kindly. "Really, you should try to get some sleep. Standing there you'll catch your death of cold."

Holmes frowned but nodded. He allowed her to usher him away from the door so that she could close it.

"Perhaps you are right, Mrs. Hudson," he said turning to climb the stairs. "For once, it may be that sleep is just what I need."

Smiling benignly, Mrs. Hudson returned to her rooms. Holmes contemplated a return to the front door but decided against it. It would serve no purpose. Sleep might be useful to relax his mind and let the facts sort themselves through his unconscious mind. Certainly he was getting nowhere with the case at the moment. He climbed wearily to the landing before his door and was reaching for the knob when he noticed something strange about the little brass knocker mounted at eye level.

Now, it is a fact, there was nothing at all particular about the knocker on the door, except that it was remarkably well polished. Holmes, of course, noted Watson's finger prints and the small smudge of grayish polish on its corner but I dare say that you or I would have noted nothing whatever out of the ordinary save that Holmes's reflection in the bright surface seemed more than usually distorted. It seemed for a moment to be nothing but the poor lighting and yet it struck the detective for he had never observed this effect before. He peered more intently at it until gradually it resolved into the features of his arch nemesis, Moriarty. It was not as other reflections for it seemed to exceed the boundaries of the knocker and the eyes regarded Holmes much as they had on the last visit to this flat of the late Professor. Cool and calculating.

As Holmes observed it, the face faded and the knocker resumed its accustomed reflective nature. Frowning over this, Holmes turned the knob and entered his rooms. It would not be fair to say that he was disturbed or upset; but it is certain that Holmes was intrigued by what had just transpired. He lit a pipe and tried to banish the memory from his thoughts. He failed.

Sitting once more before his dwindling fire, Holmes could not tear his mind from the singular event he had just experienced. There came to him through this contemplation the distant sound of metal clinking. He paid it no mind for a few moments until the sound persisted. As he listened, puffing on his pipe, he made out a rhythm like a man walking beneath a great burden. He listened absently until he realized that the steps of this burdened man were climbing the stairs of his own home! With trepidation and no little concern, Holmes sat absolutely still. There came a pounding upon his door as a man might who demanded redress of some wrong. It made the very floor shake and the ornaments and oddments about the shelves bounced with each blow. Holmes closed his eyes, knowing well the signs of hallucination. With a final blow like a great hammer, the door sprang open to slam hard back against the wall and rock the coat rack which stood close by.

Opening his eyes, Holmes perceived the figure of a man wrapped 'round and 'round with a great chain from which depended skulls, the bodies of slain children, corpses of men who had died in great pain and those, too, of women shamefully used. Great cash-boxes and weapons of all kinds were twisted up in those ponderous links. It was a horror to behold. Holmes sat speechless. Moriarty. Professor Moriarty in inhuman form. The figure stepped heavily across the threshold dragging ever more links of chain behind him. Link upon link extended out of the door and into the darkened stairwell beyond to disappear from sight. It seemed that such a chain could not fit in the hall. It could not be made to fit in the entire house or perhaps even the city of London itself. It was a monstrous chain, indeed.

Holmes's calculating mind fought against what his senses beheld. This could not be, so it was not.

"How now, Moriarty?" Holmes said ironically.

The thing before Holmes opened its mouth to speak and forth gushed brackish water to spill down the front of its fine coat and the chains which bound it closed.

"Much the words I should have expected," the apparition said evenly, though it still sputtered water.

"So you speak," Holmes observed. "What is it that you want from me?"

"Much!" it said.

"Then you had better have a seat if you can," Holmes said mildly.

The thing struggled across the floor under its burden, dragging links behind it. Before the settee it stopped and, with great effort, sat. The settee did not so much as sag for there is no weight to an apparition no matter how heavily it is burdened.

"You do not believe in me," said the apparition calmly.

"I do not," Holmes replied.

"Why not?" asked Moriarty. "Do you not believe your eyes?"

"They can be deceived as you well know." Holmes took up his pipe again.

"A reasoned response. Very logical," Moriarty said with a tinge of bitterness. "What proof would convince you?"

"None."

"Truly?" Moriarty gazed harder at Holmes.

"I do not remember using the needle this evening but clearly I must have." Holmes lit his pipe. "By morning you will fade away and I will be left ill and shaking with chills. You are not real, sir."

"I suppose screaming and shaking my chains would not impress you then."

"No indeed." Holmes puffed out a cloud of rich smelling tobacco smoke.

"Then perhaps you will accept me hypothetically?" Moriarty asked sedately.

"Explain the hypothesis," said Holmes in reply.

"For the sake of argument let us say that I am a ghost," Moriarty said. "Let us also say that I have, for whatever reason, only this night been able to communicate with you after attempting to do so for years. Since my death, in fact."

"That would beg the question 'Why?'" Holmes was peering intently at the spectre now.

"For my own gain, naturally."

"Naturally," Holmes smirked.

"It would be a lie to say otherwise."

"You were not above lying in life, Professor."

"I have greater reason to speak the truth these days." Moriarty gestured to the mass of chain stretched behind him.

"What is it?"

"Justice," Moriarty said simply. "The justice I avoided all of my days caught me when I plunged into the abyss. Had I known this awaited me, I would have mended my ways and likely would have restrained myself. I wish now that I had remained the humble professor of mathematics."

"Rather than the Napoleon of crime?" Holmes's tone was ironic.

"That was your title for me."

"So it was." Holmes puffed again. "Why come to me?"

"To save you from a similar fate and so, perhaps, relieve me of some of this suffering."

"What have I done to deserve such a fate as yours?" Holmes demanded.

"Your fate would not be so cruel as mine, yet it would be cruel enough." Moriarty's eyes drifted over the links and that which depended from them. "I tell you, Sherlock Holmes, that you have forged such a chain, though it is by no means so heavy as that which binds me. Your virtues have lessened the number and size of its links, yet the fetters that bind you are more than any sane man would care to endure."

"And yet you have not wholly answered my question."

"You have driven from you any who would be your friend and what's more you have begun to drive from you those that are your friends." Moriarty lifted a link with a severed head hanging upon it. Holmes saw that it was the head of Sebastian Moran. "It was one of my faults, also."

"Watson remains my friend," Holmes said defensively.

"For how much longer?" Moriarty's eyes burned into Holmes's. "You did not trust him with your secrets. You used him. You often criticized his talents. Belittled his efforts to emulate you. Most grievous of all, you withheld from him the one bit of information that might have lightened his grief when his wife died."

"I only spoke the truth. And as for his wife, I was not even in London when she passed away!" Anger rose in Holmes as it had not done in years. "Even if I had been here there was nothing I could have done for her!"

"For her? No. But had you informed Dr. Watson that you still lived he would not have been grieved doubly in so short a time." Moriarty was relentless and remorseless. "Watson suffered deeply at your apparent loss. Followed so soon afterward by his wife's death, it nearly broke his mind. And what of your brother Mycroft?"

"Mycroft? What of him?"

"When was the last time you spent an evening together?"

"Why, it was the fifth of September," Holmes said with dignity.

"And since then you have worked upon a case for him. A half an hour's consultation. And now it is the twenty-fourth of December," answered the spectre. "And Mrs. Hudson?"

"I saw her just this evening," Holmes replied stiffly.

"And what did you talk about?"

Holmes set his pipe aside but did not reply.

"How long before there will be no one who will tolerate you? How long before you are quite alone?"

"Watson will never desert me."

"Are you so confident?" Moriarty shrugged as if any answer to that question was irrelevant.

Holmes sat quietly contemplating the conversation for a few minutes. Finally he asked, "What do you suggest, Professor?"

"Nothing," Moriarty said meeting his eyes again. "My place is not to counsel you. Rather, I have come as a harbinger of others."

"Others?"

"Expect the first when the clock strikes two. The second when the clock strikes three." Moriarty rose with a great cacophony of clinking chains. "The third will come in its own time, as is its wont."

With these final words, the spectre flowed backwards through the open door as if being drawn by the great chains. They seemed to drag him away in an implacable rush. As the ghost disappeared into the darkened stairwell the door slammed shut with a resounding bang. Holmes was left sitting by his rapidly diminishing fire. Though outwardly he showed no emotion whatever, inside he felt dread. Cold, hard dread. He closed his eyes, drawing in a meditative breath, and after a moment he released it slowly and opened his eyes.

Before retiring to his bed for the night, Holmes examined the door only to find his suspicions confirmed. There was no sign whatever that anything had happened.

"Humbug!" snorted Holmes as he crossed to the door to his bedroom. Once inside, however, he threw the bolt.


	2. Chapter 2

**Stave II**

**The First**

Holmes strove to purge the memory of his conversation with Moriarty from his mind. The dead did not walk the Earth. Moriarty would certainly not haunt Baker Street. It had all been a drug induced hallucination. He surely had mixed his seven percent solution stronger than usual. Eight or nine percent, perhaps. If that were the case, though, why did his arm show no sign of an injection? Holmes brushed that thought aside as well. It must have been something else. Too much tobacco and not enough sleep. Something of the sort. He would inquire of Watson when next they met.

Dressed in a nightshirt Holmes sank into his bed with an unsettled relief. The morning would bring clarity and all of this would be behind him. His mind would be ready to contend with the facts of the case when he awoke. He turned down the wick in the oil lamp on his bedside table and laid his head down for a long rest. A rest which eluded him. His ears easily discerned the ticking of the mantel clock as the minutes passed. On many a night, this noise had lulled Holmes into sleep, but not on this night. Each passing minute seemed as long as life's age. In spite of himself Holmes began to calculate how many more minutes it would be before the clock struck two. Time dragged and Holmes lay wakeful.

"Ding-DING, ding-DING," chimed the clock.

Holmes tensed, waiting.

Nothing. Nothing at all. No change. The flat stayed quite silent, save for the ticking of the clock. The darkness reigned, save for the glow of his little fire in the grate.

Holmes sighed and settled down more deeply into his covers. Foolishness. He would have chided Watson had the doctor reacted in the fashion he had this evening. Foolishness. He closed his eyes and was ready to surrender to sleep, when he realized the fire had grown slightly brighter. Holmes opened an eye and looked to the small grate in the corner of the room. The fire was no larger than it had been, yet the room was gradually filling with a soft light. Holmes peered into the dim shadows but perceived nothing that might provide such illumination. Soon a welling of light began to form at the foot of his bed. Holmes watched in fascination. It was not long before the outline of a small form was evident and then there was clearly a person of small stature amidst the light. No. Not in the light but rather emitting the light as a candle flame does.

"Sherlock Holmes," said a youthful but authoritative voice.

Squinting at the figure of light, Holmes could make out the face and figure. "Wiggins?"

"I am the one foretold to you by he who will not be named," said the figure of light.

"Wiggins, how are you doing this?" Holmes gestured to the glow surrounding the leader of the Baker Street Irregulars.

"I am not he," said the figure that looked like Wiggins.

"Then who?" demanded Holmes more intrigued than frightened.

"I am the Ghost of Christmas Past."

"Long past?" Holmes asked.

"Your past, Mr. Holmes."

"I see," said Holmes.

"You will," said the Spirit. "Rise. There is much for you to see and I have little time here. Others will follow."

"I was told that." Holmes shifted in his bed and sat up. "Before we begin, I would like to know what business brings you here."

"Your welfare."

"I should think that my welfare would be well served by a sound night's sleep."

"Your reclamation, then," the Spirit said giving the detective a level look.

Holmes rose from his bed and fitted on his house slippers then donned his dressing gown. "Very well, Wiggins, show me what you will."

The boyish spectre cocked his head and graced Holmes with a slight smile.

"Well, I can not go on calling you Ghost of Christmas Past," Holmes said intuiting the cause of the spectre's amusement. "It is rather a mouthful and calling you Ghost feels awkward somehow."

"Well enough," Wiggins said still amused. "Take my hand, Sherlock Holmes."

"Why?"

"So that you may see."

Holmes took the proffered hand and allowed himself to be drawn to his narrow window. Of its own accord, the drape moved aside and the sash rose in its frame. Over the old city there was a gentle snow falling illuminated by the many street lamps and a very few candlelit windows. Off in the far distance, Holmes saw a glow that did not originate from any earthbound source. He was studying this glow when suddenly he realized that the Spirit had drawn him through the window and they were now coursing through the air above the city. Holmes restrained a cry of alarm and forced his mind away from the panic natural to any who might find himself propelled thus through a London night.

"Fear not, guv," the Spirit said, now with Wiggins's customary Cockney accent.

"I will not, Wiggins, but I do wish to remind you that I am a man of flesh and blood, therefore ill accustomed to this manner of travel," said Holmes, in a voice that only the ungracious would have said trembled. "Tell me, though, Wiggins, what is that glow?"

"Your past," said Wiggins.

"And it is there we are bound?"

"Yeah, it is," Wiggins replied.

"And what shall we do there?"

"You'll see, guv. Oh, you'll see."

And with those words, they entered the glow, and through a shining void they shot. As suddenly as they had entered the void, they emerged above a landscape of snow covered rolling downs, bare trees and stone fences. In the distance was a village surrounded by farms and amongst them was a small Regency manor house. Instantly Holmes knew where he was. His home. Rather, the home of his youth.

The Spirit made some adjustment and they descended to the cobbled road some little distance outside of the village. Though the snow was ankle deep, Holmes felt no cold and the wind upon his cheek was not bitter. He felt it pass over him but did not feel its chill.

"Know this place, do ya, gov?" asked Wiggins.

"Know it?" Holmes snorted. "As well as any. This was my home. I walked this lane many times. I could walk it with my eyes closed."

At that moment they heard a ruckus of joyful laughter and the distinct smack and splat of snowballs. A troop of boys lurched and fumbled across a small clearing near the road. They stooped and packed the snow as fast as they could and, once so armed, they hurled their uncouth missiles at each other.

"Why! That's Thomas Riely!" cried Holmes. "And there is Joseph Blume and George Hench and Willy Miller! Hello, Willy!"

"They can't 'ear ya, Mr. 'Olmes," Wiggins told him. "They ain't nothin' but reflections o' yer youth. Shadders given form, loike."

"Willy was my best friend for many years," Holmes said paying little heed to the Spirit. "Always was a crack shot with a snowball. Look at him!"

And true to what Holmes said, the boy launched yet another ball at a boy who had just stumbled into the clearing. It struck with great effect, checking the headlong rush of the new arrival and causing him to drop his own snowball. He was a gangling child with disproportionately long legs and almost painfully slim.

"You'll have to do better than that, Sherlock!" Willy called.

"Do ya recognize that lad?" asked Wiggins of Holmes.

Staring incredulously, Holmes breathed, "It is me."

"Ya seem to 'ave been a jemmy chavy in them days, guv," Wiggins observed. "Not so fly, though."

"Wiggins," Holmes said with some asperity. "You may look and sound like the real Wiggins but the accent does not suit your station."

"Very well," the Spirit said with a smile of genuine amusement. "You were game for the sport but ill suited to it, I think."

"Watch," replied Holmes knowingly.

As the rest of the boys stumbled to a stop the young Sherlock rubbed his eyes to clear them of the remnants of the snowball. As he continued to rub at them the other boys closed in around him with some concern as if they feared their friend had been injured. When they were only a few paces away Sherlock reached deftly into his half buttoned jacket drawing out a perfectly made snowball that he hurled at Willy. Before it had struck he repeated the movement and one after the other the surrounding boys were struck squarely. This provoked gales of laughter and all of them joined in in pummeling the young Holmes with their own snowballs. They capered and leaped about in mad dashes flinging snow at each other in clamorous, joyful war.

Holmes's usually stoic countenance was cast into a smile of pleasure as he and his guide watched the boys play. Soon, though, the play was interrupted by a harsh call.

"Sherlock!" barked a man from a dark carriage just up the lane from where Holmes and his guide stood.

As the rain of snowballs ended Holmes and the Spirit turned their eyes to the carriage.

"My father," said Holmes tonelessly.

"You look remarkably like him," commented Wiggins.

"I had not noticed before," said Holmes dryly. "It does stand to reason."

"Sherlock," the elder Holmes spoke from the carriage. "You are late. You have your studies to complete before dinner."

The younger Holmes dropped the snowball he had just packed and trod woodenly across the clearing looking as though he suddenly felt a greater chill than the weather would allow for. Once settled in the carriage beside his father the groom stirred up the reins and the horse drew the carriage away. Father and son sat stiffly next to each other as they disappeared around the curve in the lane.

"Your father disapproved of snowball fights?" the Spirit inquired.

"Father felt that such activities were of little use," Holmes explained. "They required too little of the mind. He saw no value in exercises that did not increase your knowledge."

"Come with me, Mr. Holmes." The Spirit led Holmes along the lane until they reached the manor house. It seemed to Holmes that they did not pass through the doors but materialized inside the large study of the home. Bookcases lined the walls with a large oaken desk occupying the middle of the room. At this sat the young Sherlock with his nose in a book.

"Where is your Christmas tree, Mr. Holmes?" asked Wiggins.

"After my mother's death we didn't have one." There was a note to Holmes's voice quite different from its usual tone. "Christmas dinner was only slightly more grand than any other we had."

"It made for a lonely holiday, I imagine," said the Spirit.

"I suppose it might have." Holmes shrugged as if it were of no importance. "I occupied myself well enough."

"With your studies? On Christmas Eve?"

Holmes said nothing but kept his eyes on the boy.

"You passed many Christmases thusly," the Spirit persisted. "Alone. Separated from your friends."

"Not entirely alone," said Holmes.

At that moment a tall figure entered the study.

"Mycroft," Holmes said softly. "Before he began over eating."

"Your older brother. He looks downcast," Wiggins commented.

"He made few visits home." Holmes shrugged. "He did not care to return here. Mycroft preferred to remain at school most holidays. Even in the summer."

"Did he enjoy studying so?"

"He and father did not get on well."

"Good afternoon, Sherlock," Mycroft said to the boy at the desk.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock cried springing to his feet. "I didn't know you had arrived."

"Only a moment ago, brother," Mycroft said as he crossed to the desk. He picked up the book and read the title. "Robinson Crusoe? Father is allowing you to read this?"

Sherlock looked at his feet. "I am supposed to be reading Homer."

"Do not worry," Mycroft said gently. "He won't hear of this from me."

"I want to read Ivanhoe next but father will not give me the money for it."

Mycroft considered his younger brother a moment. "Perhaps Father Christmas will bring it to you."

"Father told me there is no Father Christmas, Mycroft."

"I had thought he would wait another year."

Young Sherlock shook his head. "He told me last year."

The brothers fell silent, standing alone together.

"Mycroft was a great help to me," Holmes mused. He walked across the carpeted floor to stand next to the shade of his elder brother. "We never touched after mother's death."

"Why not?" asked the Spirit.

"What purpose would it have served?"

"Come, Holmes," said the Spirit. "Time runs short for me."

With only a brief hesitation Holmes turned from the two figures in the study and followed the Spirit through the door to emerge into another place. Gazing around him Holmes's eyes widened slightly.

"Why, it's my old classroom!" he cried. "I studied here as a youth!"

A slim, pretty young woman entered and crossed to the only occupied table. Behind it stood a young man with his head bowed over a microscope.

"Alice?" Holmes said bemused. "Alice Howel."

"A pretty girl," Wiggins observed. "What is she doing in a boys school?"

"Pretty? You have a masterful gift for understatement, Wiggins," Holmes snorted derisively. "Alice was the daughter of Professor Howel. She was permitted to assist him in preparing his materials for lectures and the like. Not actually employed by the school, but she worked very hard. She studied in the evenings and attended lectures unobtrusively throughout the day. Quite the brilliant mind, had Alice."

"So it was her mind that interested you?"

Holmes shot the diminutive Spirit a hard look but it quickly softened in the light of truth.

"Obviously it was not her only virtue." Holmes looked back to the figure of the young woman. "She eventually applied to a women's university. She scored very well on the entrance exams."

"Are you still here, Sherlock?" Alice asked after she had stood unnoticed by the young man at his microscope. His reaction was nearly comic as his head snapped up and he turned red-rimmed eyes upon her. An engaging smile blossomed on the young woman's face and it was returned by a slightly awkward one from the young man. "I thought you would have been on a train home by now."

"I decided not to go home this year, Alice."

"Oh?" Alice smiled a little. "Have you some experiment that will not wait?"

"No," Sherlock shook his head. "I... My father does not celebrate Christmas. That's all."

Sadness flickered in the young woman's eyes and then she said, "You would be most welcome at my father's home. Our cook is quite good. And we have a larger goose than we could possibly eat."

"I wouldn't want to impose," Sherlock said politely.

"Impose?" Alice laughed softly. "Sherlock, you've just been invited and I will not take 'no' for an answer. You must come to Christmas dinner. Father will be very pleased as well. He truly enjoys your discussions."

Alice led the young Sherlock from the classroom by his hand not noticing, or at least pretending to not notice, that the youth looked at their clasped hands rather than where they were going.

"You two were fond of each other," said Wiggins.

"Fond?" Holmes mused. "I suppose we were. Alice was a very kind girl."

"But the fondness was not enough?" asked the Spirit.

"Enough for what?" Holmes queried.

"Look," said the Spirit.

The room changed. The scientific materials and books upon the tables shifted and the light through the windows changed to that of mid day. Sherlock, now a young man, stood at the same table with a test tube poised over a beaker, ready to drip its contents into some solution or other. Alice, also older than before, entered and watched as Holmes observed the reaction of the two chemicals before she crossed to him.

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock," she said when he finished making a note on his pad.

"Oh! Hello, Alice," replied the young man. "Merry Christmas."

"I wanted to tell you that my results arrived in the post yesterday," she said. "I've been accepted for the spring. They are placing me as second year."

"Very impressive. I had no doubt that you would do well."

"I've spoken with my father," she went on uncertainly. "He and I agree that I might wait until the fall term to begin. It would be after your graduation."

"So it would," Sherlock looked down at his notes. He was clearly agitated about something.

Stiffly the girl went on, "Father thinks he could find you a position with a firm not far from the university. It would be a London firm. Just the sort of work you are good at."

"That is very kind of him," Sherlock said non-committedly.

"I would be in school for another three years," Alice persisted. "By then you would have completed your apprenticeship. You would have a place in the firm. Enough money to live comfortably."

"Yes," Sherlock nodded. "You see, I'm not entirely sure I want to go to London just now. I was thinking I would travel a bit. See something of the world."

"Oh." Alice's eyes dropped to the table top. Her shoulders drooped a touch and she wrung her hands. "I... I understand. Well... Father's offer, I am sure, could be extended. That is, if you were to decide to go to London after your travels, he might still be able to secure you a position."

"I will keep it in mind." An awkward silence stretched for a moment before Alice turned away and quietly left the room.

"Fool," Holmes hissed. "Why did you show me this, Wiggins?"

"You did not travel very much after your graduation."

"I went to Ireland for a time." Holmes stared scornfully at the younger version of himself.

"She went on to university in the fall?"

"Alice left after the new year and entered school in the spring term." Holmes looked out of the window to watch the young woman cross the snow covered lawn. "She did very well. Eventually she became a teacher at a private school for young ladies. I understand that she is now the head mistress."

"Why did you not accept her father's offer and that which she implied?"

"I would have made an abominable husband," scoffed Holmes. "Can you imagine me married? What woman would have put up with me?"

For answer the Spirit looked out of the window at the girl as she brushed at her eyes before entering a small house on the far side of the commons.

"Show me no more of this, Wiggins," Holmes growled, standing near the young man he once was.

"It is time for me to return you to your rooms. Another comes for you soon."

A mist seemed to pass through the classroom and as it faded Holmes found himself in his bedroom at Baker Street standing before his fire. He sighed in a manner that suggested weariness. Throwing a scoop of coal on the low fire he settled into the small chair by the hearth, took a pipe from a box on the mantel and lit it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Stave III**

**The Second**

Holmes was deep in thought when he noticed that the light coming in under the door to his sitting room had grown brighter and was continuing to increase. The mantel clock had just completed its chimes for three o'clock. He rose from his chair and set aside his pipe. Crossing to the door he laid his hand upon it, finding that it was quite cool. Holmes unbolted the door and drew it in. The light streamed in with blinding intensity at first but his eyes gradually adjusted.

"Sherlock Holmes," called a contralto voice. "Come in and know me better, man!"

Laughter, rich and full seemed to bound around the room in gay mirth. Holmes, shielding his eyes against the glare, stepped into his sitting room. There, all about the place, were garlands and ribbons and bows. A tree many times too large to fit through his door stood boldly in the corner and all about on every table and even upon his desk were rich foods and wines of all varieties. Warm candle light suffused the normally softly lit room. The glare diminished until Holmes could see quite as ever he did.

Standing before the fire, which crackled with logs instead of coal, was a woman with coppery red hair dressed in a fur lined cloak that did nothing whatever to disguise her womanly form. Her hair drawn up in the most gorgeous fashion sparkled with what looked like gems of ice. Her eyes danced with a knowing mischief. In her hand was a crystal goblet containing deep red wine.

"Come in and know me better, Sherlock Holmes," said the woman again.

"Irene Adler," Holmes breathed as though taken off his guard.

"Is that how you see me?" she laughed good-naturedly. "Come in, man. There is much I must show you and my time here is limited."

"But who are you if not Irene Adler?" Holmes demanded.

"I am the Ghost of Christmas Present. You have met some of my family before. Though, you have ignored most of them of late."

"Christmas Present?" Holmes mused.

The Ghost laughed merrily again. "I know! It is quite a silly pun but that is my title."

"You say that I have met some of your family?" Holmes asked. "How many of you are there?"

"Over eighteen-hundred!" She threw back her head and swallowed the last of her wine. Then, with a devil may care grin, dashed the glass into the fire.

"Quite the prodigious family you have," Holmes smiled coolly. "So, I take it that you are here for my welfare. You are to show me Christmas as it is today?"

"That is so," she smiled.

"You will not be offended if I call you Miss Adler?" Holmes asked politely.

"I suppose it will make things less distracting for you," said the Ghost. She extended one of her well shaped arms. "Come, Holmes, take my sleeve."

Holmes did and in the blink of an eye they were transported to a street in London on a cold morning with frost on the cobbles and a light snow falling. All about them people were making their way hither and thither with the singing of street corner choirs echoing throughout the grand old city.

"Not Baker Street," Holmes observed. "Where are we?"

"Just a street. Any street," said Miss Adler as they strolled. "Why should it matter to you? You'll be in by your fire brooding over your case."

"I suppose that is true," Holmes said absently. "I just like to keep track of all of the streets in London. It is a hobby of mine."

"Oh? Well in that case we are on Bickerly Road," said the ghost.

"Bickerly?" Holmes considered the name a moment. "I have never heard of it."

"No crime of note has ever occurred here," explained the Spirit as she plucked at his elbow and indicated a neat, little home with garlands hung from the windows and a wreath upon its door. "Follow me."

"Who lives here?" Holmes asked as they mounted the steps.

"You don't know her, though, you are familiar with some of her family, too," the Spirit said enigmatically.

As with the Spirit of Christmas past, Christmas Present seemed to not open the door, yet they appeared in a gaily decorated sitting room wherein a number of people were chatting merrily and drinking punch served in a variety of Irish crystal cups. Children were attempting to sing a holiday song to the accompaniment of a gray-haired woman on the piano. Holmes had to look twice to be sure of himself. The woman was Mrs. Hudson.

"I had no idea that she played the piano," said Holmes.

"She does it quite well, don't you agree?" asked the Ghost.

"Better than average but the piano needs to be tuned," he replied.

"That happens when such an instrument is played often," said the Ghost as she tapped her fingers on the cabinet of the piano in time to the music.

As Holmes continued to listen, the music rang more sweetly from the strings within. And was it possible that the children found their notes more readily? Before another moment passed, they sang as well as any professional choir and the quality of their song caused all in the home to fall silent and listen until they felt their hearts would break from the joy the song brought. When the song ended there was a brief, awed quiet which broke into an uproar of laughter and applause. Miss Adler smiled enchantingly at Holmes.

"Why are we here?" Holmes asked.

"Why?" A vexed expression flashed across Miss Adler's face. "To enjoy the music. To see what a real family get-together is like. To share in the joy of the day, Mr. Holmes, and put troubles aside for a rest. To demonstrate to you what your fellow men do upon a Christmas day!"

Holmes nodded and said, "Well then, your mission has been accomplished. We may return to my rooms and you can be about your business."

"So you might think," she said clearly not impressed.

Holmes shrugged and then began to wander about the house. He examined the small Christmas tree and the massive stack of gaily wrapped presents beneath and around it. He found Mrs. Hudson's sister and two nieces in the kitchen and watched them as they prepared two large geese and all of the side dishes. He was amused for a time by a game of backgammon but when he heard his name spoken he turned to find his landlady in animated conversation with her brother in law and several adults.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes is quite well," Mrs. Hudson said. "At least he is as well as he ever is these days."

"Is his health deteriorating, then?" asked her brother in law.

"No. It's just that he seems more withdrawn now that the Doctor is no longer with him." She shook her head and sipped from a cup of punch. "Mr. Holmes doesn't leave his rooms for days at a time. He sees only his clients. Rarely does he even go to his concerts. He used to love them so. Even that boy he was wont to send on errands is not so welcome as once he was. You know, I saw young Wiggins being dragged down the street by a constable the other day. Got into mischief, I'd wager. And Mr. Holmes is getting short tempered. He has always had times when he was prickly but these past several months I can hardly stand to be in the same room with him. I do feel sorry for him."

"Sorry?" demanded Holmes of the shade of his landlady. "Spend your sorrow as freely as you like, woman, but not on me!"

"You mustn't talk to them, Mr. Holmes," chided Miss Adler. "They can't hear you."

"Let us be off," Holmes said quite put out. "Take me somewhere I am not pitied."

"As you like. Take hold of my robe."

Holmes did and instantly they were transported to a home he knew very well. They stood in the apartments of his elder brother. Upon the small dining table were laid two place settings. Mycroft sat at one end of the table apparently waiting for his dinner guest. Before him his plate was empty but the dinner was being set out by his butler. A great ham glistened with glaze, carrots rested in a terrine of sauce and potatoes steamed on a plate. More food was being loaded onto the table and yet Mycroft did not touch any of it. Instead he pulled his watch from his pocket and glanced at its face.

"Shall I serve you, sir?" the butler asked.

"Not yet." Mycroft stuffed his watch back into his pocket. "We shall give him another twenty minutes. Best if you cover the dishes for now. Don't want them cold when he gets here."

"Sir," the butler said deferentially. "It is already more than an hour past your usual time and he has not come for several years."

"He may come, Walters," Mycroft said patiently. "He may. And he was not even in London for three of those years"

"Who does he wait for, Miss Adler?" Holmes asked suspecting he already knew.

"He waits for his only family."

"Me?" Holmes was puzzled. "But he did not invite me to dinner."

"Does he have to?" Miss Adler gazed upon Mycroft Holmes. "How often do you think he does this?"

"I have no idea," Holmes frowned at his older brother. "He does not go out often. Indeed, he is so retiring that Mycroft is seen only in his office or in his club."

"Was he always thus?"

"No," Holmes looked at his brother in a new light. "There was a time when he and I would go to the theatre. He was quite fond of Shakespear. He has never traveled much but once we did go as far as Paris to see the Louvre. There were sculptures by Rodin that he wanted to see."

"But he has since withdrawn?"

"As you see him now," Holmes nodded.

Mycroft once more pulled his watch from his pocket and looked at it. He gave a nod to his butler and the servant began dishing food onto Mycroft's plate. Potatoes followed the slices of ham and the carrots followed the potatoes. The butler was about to cover the serving dishes again but Mycroft stopped him.

"You are forgetting the other plate, Walters."

"Very well, sir," the butler sighed. He proceeded to lay servings of the dishes on the empty guest's plate with a resigned air. Mycroft waited until this was done and then glanced at the door and at his watch before tucking it away. He lifted his silverware and began to eat. Holmes expected the Ghost to conduct him to some new place but she was content to stand and watch Mycroft finish his meal. Once his plate was empty he drew out his watch again and glanced at the door. Then he signaled the butler to pass him the plate portioned out for Sherlock. Mycroft began to eat this with the same patient rhythm as he had his own. When this plate was empty he served himself another even larger portion. Suddenly he stopped and, clutching his breast, he belched loudly and shook his head with a grimace of pain. Once the pain passed he lowered his hand to his fork again and began once more to eat.

"Why?" Holmes wondered aloud.

"You are the detective," Miss Adler said coolly. "Deduce."

Holmes eyed her but then scrutinized his brother.

"He is sweating though the room is not overly warm. His skin is pale. His breathing laboured." Holmes considered a moment. "Mycroft uses snuff rather than smoking tobacco. His clothing is tailored to fit him. It must be his heart."

"And he is often found sleeping in the middle of the day," added the ghost.

"I did not know that," Holmes said. "What will happen to him?"

"I can not foretell with certainty but if he persists in this manner I see these rooms empty when my next relative comes."

"Mycroft will die?"

"If his routine is not altered or influence in some way," she said with some sympathy. "I can not see his fate clearly for there is still time to alter it."

"Tell me what I can do to alter this fate," Holmes ordered.

"I am here to show you what is, Sherlock Holmes," said the Ghost. "It is time we were on to our next visit. My time grows short."

Holmes took her sleeve again and they were standing in the consulting room of Doctor John H. Watson. It was as bare and clinical as ever. Holmes looked about wondering why she had chosen this of all places to bring him. He had not long to wait before his old friend entered the room dressed for dinner with several packages under his arm.

Watson set the packages down upon his desk and poured himself a snifter of brandy. He sat heavily in his chair and sipped from the snifter. From his desk he lifted a photograph in a black lined frame. The photograph was of Mary Watson, the doctor's late wife. Watson gave a sad smile and drank more of his brandy. He poured another snifter full and drank it off straight away. After looking at the photograph another moment the doctor stood and went to his poison cabinet. With a small key he opened the glass door and withdrew a small vial and a needle. Watson stood still a long moment. He glanced over his shoulder at the framed portrait of his wife and then thrust the vial and the syringe back into the cabinet, re-locking the glass door. Instead of the drug Watson partook of another brandy then gathered up his packages and left the house in search of a hansom.

"Watson," Holmes said with feeling. "I can't believe it."

"Your friend is in great pain these days," Miss Adler said softly.

"His old wounds?" Holmes asked with real concern.

The ghost shook her head. "These are much more recent and far more difficult to heal."

"What wounds has he suffered that would drive him to this?" Holmes demanded with a gesture at the cabinet.

"Think of it, Sherlock. The loss of his wife. His best and oldest friend withdrawn. He has only his patients now. He's a gregarious man but Watson is lonely."

"This can not be," said Holmes. "This will not be."

"My time has run its course, Mr. Holmes," the Ghost said.

"Very well. Return me to my rooms that I might await my next caller."

"No. Your next caller will find you here." With those words, the figure of Irene Adler faded and Holmes was left alone in the darkened office.


	4. Chapter 4

**Stave IV**

**The Third**

Holmes sat for a long time staring at the photograph of Mary Watson. She had been a beautiful woman. Holmes knew from the first that his old friend had been attracted to her and he had been both pleased and apprehensive when Watson had proposed marriage to the young governess. Pleased for his old friend and apprehensive for himself. Now that she was gone, Holmes had sometimes considered inviting Watson to return to the old rooms at Baker Street but there seemed never to be a good time. Watson's practice was very busy of late and he himself had had one case after another.

While Holmes sat, there came the clicking of strange foot falls upon the floor outside the office. For an instant he expected Moriarty to show up again but the sound was very different from that of the ghost of his old nemesis. This was a much softer sound and had the cadence of something on four feet rather than two. Holmes rose from the chair and strode to the door. He slid it open and, standing there in the darkened hall, was the darker form of a massive hound with glowing eyes and jowls. It was the size of a calf and Holmes had last seen this creature upon the moor near Grimpen. He drew back from the great beast but did not cry out. He knew that this must be his next guide. The creature moved into the room and stood with burning eyes before the detective.

"You must be the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come," Holmes said.

The beast made no reply.

"You are to show me Christmases that have not yet come to pass?"

Again the beast made no reply.

"Your time is short, I am sure," Holmes said screwing up his nerve. "Best if we begin, Spirit. Take me where you will."

The Ghost regarded Holmes for a moment then turned to the door and walked out. Holmes squared his shoulders and followed. Instead of entering the hallway, Holmes found himself in the narrow aisle between the cells of a prison. Low voices emanated from one of the cells at the far end. Before him stood the hound.

"Why are we here, Spirit?" Holmes asked.

The great beast that was his guide looked back at him and then down the aisle towards the occupied cell. Holmes took this to mean that he should approach. He walked past the beast and down to the cell door and looked through the small grate. Inside were several men dressed in old clothing covered in broad arrow patterns. Convicts then.

"So what is it for you?" asked one.

"Same as you, mate," said a familiar voice. "Transportation."

"Aye?" said the first man. His voice was unfamiliar.

"Judge said there was some doubt 'bout it bein' murder and since I 'ad helped the 'Great Detective' in the past there might be some 'ope for me if I could be placed far from the influences of this city."

"You're lucky, mate," said the first voice again. "Australia's better than the noose."

"Aye," said the familiar voice.

"Name's Beartram," said the second voice.

"Wiggins," said the familiar voice.

"Wiggins?" Holmes said in some surprise. "How can this be? He's a good lad. Some mischief in him but a good lad."

Holmes felt the eyes of the hound upon him and he turned to see it standing as a darker shadow among shadows. Its eyes and jowls still glowed. The beast turned its head and then walked back the way they had come. Holmes followed it. They emerged onto a street he was familiar with. Baker Street was quiet except for Mrs. Hudson speaking with one of the neighbors on the front steps, with a broom in her hand.

"I don't mind saying that I'm almost glad he's gone," said the landlady. "More trouble to me than he was worth this last year."

"And all of his things are still up there?" asked the neighbor.

"All but a few articles that the police museum was wanting." Mrs. Hudson shook her head. "Left the place in an awful state, he did. Wouldn't let me clean or so much as step into the room for the last six months. I tell you that it may well be six months before I can have it fit to live in."

"I heard the explosion the other night," said the neighbor.

"I told him more than once that his chemical experiments were getting out of hand," said Mrs. Hudson. "Vile smelling and sulfurous. The ceiling is stained from them and his tobacco smoke both. I shall have to have it re-painted. I suppose I might not have the bullet holes filled in. Some lodger may just be attracted to living in the old rooms of the man."

"An indicator of my death, Spirit?" Holmes asked the beast at his side.

There was something knowing in the look the great hound gave to Holmes then. The Spirit moved on down the street with Holmes following close on his tail. Somehow they walked from Baker Street into the sitting room of his brother's flat. As Holmes had feared and expected there were dust covers thrown over the furniture and the place looked as if it had not been lived in for many months. Holmes walked about the place but found no sign of his brother or his butler. The servant's room was completely empty save for the furniture. His brother's room had been neatly put away and closed up as if the master might return. Yet, Holmes knew what this meant. His brother was gone.

"So, Mycroft is dead, then." Holmes stood gazing out of the window into the afternoon light. The street outside was as busy as it ever was and the houses all about were decorated for the sake of the day but these rooms were devoid of any life or gayety. "Take me somewhere else, Spirit. I have learned all I care to from this dismal place."

Again Holmes followed the hound and they emerged into the office of Inspector Lestrade. He was still the thin, rat-faced man Holmes remembered but his eyes seemed sunken and his colour was not good. He sat gazing at nothing with his hand upon the desk clutching a bromo-seltzer.

"Merry Christmas, Lestrade," said Gregson from his doorway.

"Hhmm?" Lestrade said coming out of his malaise. "Oh! Merry Christmas, Gregson."

"Still working the Hartford case, then?" Gregson asked not unkindly.

"A devil of a conundrum for me," Lestrade acknowledged.

"I don't envy you that one," Gregson replied. "I can only imagine what sort of political pressure is on you, old man."

"I hate to admit it, but I wish I could consult Holmes on this one," Lestrade said taking a long drink from the seltzer glass.

"A right pain he could be, but there were none better at cases such as that one." Gregson gestured to the stack of folders upon Lestrade's desk.

"I don't know what I'll do next," Lestrade said glumly. "Can't give up."

Holmes felt the hound brush the backs of his legs and he turned to follow it out of the room. They walked only a few steps and were suddenly in front of the church yard of St. James Church. Snow lay heavy all about the stones but here and there were bright hothouse flowers or ribbons or some other oddment of decoration set upon the marble markers. The Spirit went to the gate in the low wall and sat down gazing intently through the bars. Holmes followed the line of its gaze and saw a stone not tended to, with a layer of frost and snow thickly upon it.

"I see," said Holmes and began to turn away. His movement was checked by the baring of the hound's teeth. It made no sound but the message was clear. Holmes opened the gate and strode through the snow to the untended grave with its wintry layer.

"I need not read the words upon this marker to know that this is a portent of my own fate, Spirit." Holmes felt strangely reluctant to read the name and dates upon the marble. "Your fellow Spirits have already told me that fate can be altered. A life can be changed and so such an outcome as this might not come to pass. I do not need to read these words."

Holmes looked back to the grim, black form at the gate and saw its eyes narrowed and again it bared its teeth. Taking in a deep breath of the cold air Holmes resigned himself to the task and bent to brush the stone clear of the winter accumulation. As his hand passed over the surface the name became clear but it was not his nor was it his brother's.

"Doctor John H. Watson?" Holmes read aloud with growing apprehension. "Beloved husband of Mary and Loving Uncle."

Holmes rounded on the beast at the gate and cried, "Watson! Watson has died?"

The beast stood suddenly as if expecting an attack but it did not otherwise move. Its eyes stayed leveled on Holmes.

"Watson is in good health!" Holmes advanced on the Spirit. "Yet, this date is not a year hence. What could have over taken my friend?'

And then he knew for to his mind came the memory of the vial and syringe. Watson was in great pain and he had had no one to turn to.

"Why was I not there for him, Spirit?" Holmes begged to know. "Am I not also dead?"

The hound cocked his head and his ears rose slightly. He turned and took a step waiting for Holmes to follow before leading him down the street. They arrived in a clean, well lit hall with many doors to either side. A short way off one door stood ajar. A soft voice came from within. Holmes approached. He peered in through the open door and saw Lestrade sitting in a hard wooden chair next to a soft bed. Under the covers with a night cap on his head sat a slightly older but much more drawn looking Holmes. His hair had been shorn close to his scalp and his eyes were red rimmed with dark circles beneath them.

"Mr. Holmes, did you hear me?" Lestrade said. "I need your help, sir."

The Holmes in the bed did not reply. He only looked out of the small, barred window.

"I can't figure this one out, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade went on. "I've looked at it from every direction and gathered in as many clues as I can find. I just don't understand them. Please, Mr. Holmes, won't you even try?"

"Go away," murmured the Holmes in the bed.

"I can get you out of here for a few days if that is what you need," Lestrade persisted.

"My deductions would not help the likes of you, Lestrade," snarled Holmes his eyes flashing. "Fools! All of you. You plod along and do not see. Will not see. Clues? Ha!"

"Mr. Holmes, the doctors think it would be good for you to get your mind on a problem again," Lestrade told him. "Give yourself something to work on."

"It is all pointless," Holmes said tiredly. "How many have I caught over the years? All the clever ones are gone and you and the other Yarders can't even find the poor specimens. There is no need for Sherlock Holmes anymore. Go tell it to Watson. Even with his limited skills he could solve your case for you, I'm sure."

"Mr. Holmes," Lestrade began again but a glare from the man in the bed stopped him. The inspector rose and walked to the door. He looked back with a touch of anger mixed with sadness. "If you change your mind, sir, tell the doctor to send for me."

"Can you not leave me alone?" the man in the bed sighed. "That is really all I want. Everyone. Leave me alone."

Lestrade turned from the room and went away down the long hall. Holmes stepped through the door and sat in the chair next to his likeness in the bed. He now noticed the restraints upon his wrists that bound him to the iron rails of the bed itself.

"Moriarty was right," Holmes murmured to himself. "No sane man would want this. I will not have this. Watson dead? Mycroft dead? Wiggins transported? NO!"

He rose from the chair and looked upon the hound now sitting in the doorway. With an effort he controlled his passion lest he offend the Spirit.

"This is not my fate!" Holmes stated with force. "I am not meant to end my days strapped to a bed in some damned asylum. If there were no way to alter this fate then there would be no reason to show me this. I will not allow myself, my brother nor any of my friends and least of all Watson to end as you have shown me. Speak if you can! Tell me how I might alter this future! I defy this ending and I, Sherlock Holmes, say I will not allow it!"

The massive hound rose and took a step into the room with its teeth bared. In a sudden rush it was on Holmes who threw up a hand to guard his throat even as he fell backward. Everything went dark and Holmes rolled upon the floor lashing out with his arms and legs to drive the thing from him. He struggled thusly for a moment before he realized the hound had not landed upon him and that he was no longer in the stark room of the asylum. Holmes lay on the small rug in his bedroom back at Backer Street. The dawn light had already passed into that of early morning and he could hear church bells ringing. He pushed himself to his feet and went out into the sitting room, which looked as he had left it. He crossed to the front window and, spying a constable on patrol across the street, he threw up the sash and called to the man.

"I say there, constable!"

The man looked about and then up to where Holmes leaned from his window.

"Trouble, sir?" the constable called back.

"Good man!" Holmes chuckled. "No trouble. Can you tell me what day it is?"

The constable frowned fearing that he was being confronted with a lunatic.

"It's just, you see, that I have been rather involved lately and I've lost track of the days," Holmes explained.

"Yes. I see, sir," the constable said warily. "Today is Christmas day."

"So they did do it all in one night," Holmes said to himself. "Naturally. It stands to reason. They are Spirits after all."

"Is there anything else, sir?" the constable called from below.

"Yes," Holmes called back. "Do you know a young man by name of Wiggins?"

"Wiggins, sir?" the constable advanced across the street with a gate that said he was now in his official capacity. "I should say I do. Took him in just two nights ago. Has he been causing you trouble?"

"Good man! Clever man!" Holmes beamed down. "No he has not. I have a particular interest in that lad, is all. He runs errands for me now and again. Will you do me a service?"

"If I can, sir, and it doesn't interfere with my duties."

"Pray then, come up to my rooms. Just ring the bell and the landlady will admit you. I shan't be a moment."

Holmes ducked back into his rooms and off to his bedroom he shot. By the time Mrs. Hudson had conducted the constable up the stairs Holmes had donned his clothes and was scribbling on a pad. He answered the door and drew the constable in with a shake of the hand.

"I wish you to take this note to your superior and present him with my card." Holmes handed over the paper and card. "This afternoon, if you would be so good, I wish that you would conduct the young Mr. Wiggins to this flat. If not you, then one of the other constables, but you have thus far proven such a help that I would rather it were you. I have included a line to that effect and a commendation about you to your superior from me. I would be in your debt, constable, if you would so oblige me."

Taken quite aback by this unexpected turn the constable glanced at the card and his eyes widened. A commendation from Mr. Sherlock Holmes was a feather in his cap and might be the difference when he next came up for promotion.

"I shall see to it personally, Mr. Holmes," said he as Holmes shook his hand again and ushered him out of the door.

Mrs. Hudson still stood on the landing with curious eyes and watched as the constable left the house.

"Mrs. Hudson," Holmes said taking her by the hand and drawing her into his embrace. The elderly little woman stiffened in shock at so familiar a gesture from her lodger. "Merry Christmas, my dear woman! Merry Christmas!"

"Um... Merry Christmas, Mr. Holmes," she said in a state of confusion.

"I have something for you as well," Holmes produced a small note and handed it to her. "Give this to your sister and have her present it to Mr. Thompson of Thompson and Cohan Musical Instruments, West Thames Street."

"But why, Mr. Holmes?" she asked bewildered.

"Her piano is out of tune and he has the best ear in the whole of London for that sort of thing." Holmes smiled down on her. "I shall tend to the bill myself, Mrs. Hudson."

"But, Mr. Holmes..." she began.

"Not another word, my dear lady," Holmes cut her off. "It is the least I can do for your having to tolerate my eccentricities all of these years. Now go and finish your preparations for this afternoon and enjoy yourself. I shall see you tomorrow. Have a very merry Christmas, Mrs. Hudson!"

He bustled her out of the door and turned once more to his bedroom where he donned his best frock coat before he ventured out into the chill of an early Christmas day.


	5. Chapter 5

**Stave V**

**Holmes A Visiting**

The knock upon the door roused Mycroft Holmes from his reading. It was not that interesting anyway; another Home Office report done on a typewriter with a dipping J and a lowercase A that had been scarred in the casting. At least the ribbon was well inked. Walters came into the study a moment later with a slightly bemused look upon his face.

"Your brother, sir," said Walters.

In his haste to stand, Mycroft struggled and floundered until he raised his hand for Walters to help him up. With a great effort, Walters did and they succeeded in getting Mycroft on his feet without catastrophe.

"There!" Mycroft said with pretensions of dignity. "Thank you, Walters. Show my brother in."

A moment later Sherlock Holmes entered the small study to find his elder brother standing coolly awaiting him. Holmes smiled and crossed the room to throw his arms about the broad form of his brother who, startled, did not know what to do at first, but then hesitantly returned the embrace.

"Merry Christmas, Mycroft!" Holmes cried stepping back from his clearly bewildered brother.

"Mer... Merry Christmas, Sherlock," Mycroft finally stammered. "It is quite good to see you."

"I come to ask your forgiveness, brother," Sherlock told him.

"For what?" Mycroft's head was spinning. What was this all about. "Have you been drinking, Sherlock?"

"No such spirits are involved," Sherlock said with a chuckle at some joke that Mycroft did not catch. "It is only that I have realized that on Christmas Day, of all days, families should be together. And in the past I have not been with you. I wish to beg your pardon for that."

"Oh? Well, granted, Sherlock," said Mycroft with a broadening smile. "Granted! Will you be joining me for dinner then?"

"I am afraid not," said Sherlock.

"Oh," Mycroft's smile vanished.

"I will not be joining you for you will be joining me, brother," Sherlock said with a rare twinkle in his eye. "You shall be my guest at a dinner I have been invited to."

"Oh?" Mycroft's smile flickered on and off like a guttering lamp light. "Not a public dinner, is it?"

"No," said Sherlock. "There will be at least three other people there, but I should think it will be fairly private."

"Good. Yes, good." Mycroft looked towards his doorway apprehensively.

"Something the matter?" Sherlock asked.

"It's just that Walters has already begun to cook."

"Tell him to invite his bachelor friends to dine with him," Sherlock said.

"Walters's friends?" Mycroft scratched his chin. "I don't know if he has any."

"All men of sense have friends, Mycroft," Sherlock assured his brother. "All men."

"Well, I'll do it!" the elder Holmes said with a genuine smile. "Will you join me for coffee? I was going to have some with a few buns or toast. Say you will, Sherlock."

The brothers did settle in for coffee and they spoke of their childhood and the things they had enjoyed together. Eventually Sherlock convinced Mycroft that they were going to attend a showing of _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ on the following Friday and soon thereafter Sherlock left with a promise to return with a cab that afternoon to take his brother to dinner. Not knowing what to do with himself, Mycroft went to the kitchen and spoke for a time with Walters who did indeed have several bachelor friends and took it very kindly that his employer wished him to invite them for Christmas dinner.

Sherlock, in the mean time, made his way across the city to the home of his old friend Dr. John Watson. He descended from the cab and, stepping to the front door, knocked. Examining the brass knocker he noted that it was in need of a shine but was otherwise unremarkable. The maid opened the door and accepted Holmes's card before letting him enter and taking his hat and cane. A moment after the maid left him standing in the foyer Holmes heard the familiar tread of Watson rushing down the stairs.

"Holmes!" Watson cried with suppressed delight. "You solved the case?"

"I have not," Homes said with half a smile.

"Then why are you here?" Watson asked, confused.

"To inquire if I might bring my brother to dinner this evening," Holmes replied.

"I suppose it would be alright, Holmes," Watson said frowning in thought. "I don't see why not. But, you accept the invitation?"

"If it is still offered." Holmes's smile was wan and almost bashful. "Watson, I have done you a great wrong, my old friend."

"What?" Watson waved a hand dismissively. "I caught you in the middle of a case, Holmes. Think no more of it."

"That is not what I mean, Watson," Holmes sighed and stepped closer to his friend. "You above all people have been at my side through the worst life has thrown at me. You have saved my life more than once and never thought of yourself or your own safety. And I was not there when you lost your dear wife. On too many occasions I have been elsewhere when you were in need. I have been very selfish. Please, Watson, forgive me."

Watson looked upon Holmes with brimming eyes. He swallowed hard and coughed to clear his throat before he could speak.

"Of course I forgive you, Holmes," Watson said softly. "How could I do otherwise? You are the best of friends. The best of all my friends."

They were silent a moment and then Holmes spoke again.

"I have deduced the reason that I have not been able to solve this latest case, Watson."

Relieved at the change of subject Watson raised an inquiring brow and asked, "Why is that?"

"Because I have been denied my chief asset." Holmes strightened and then went on. "It is really my fault, too. I was foolish not to see it sooner."

"Your chief asset? I don't understand, Holmes."

"You, Watson," Holmes said clapping him on the shoulder. "In every one of my greatest cases you were at my side, if not in front of me. It has been you, as much as anything else, that gave me what I needed to ferret out the truth. To expose what is hidden. You, Watson, are essential to my success, and I have neglected you. Will you please return to our old lodgings on Baker Street? I know it would be a great inconvenience to you, but will you consider it?"

"I would be delighted, Holmes!" Watson beamed up at him.

"Thank you, John."

"Not at all, Sherlock."

That afternoon, before setting out to pick up his brother, Holmes went to the door to answer the knock that had just announced a caller. Standing on the landing was the constable of that morning and a very submissive looking Wiggins with his cap in his hand. Holmes thanked the constable again and wished him once more a very merry Christmas before closing the door and conducting Wiggins into the sitting room.

"You have been in some trouble lately, Wiggins," Holmes said without preamble.

"Trouble? Me, sir? No!" Wiggins denied.

Holmes raised an eyebrow at the young lad.

"Jus' a li'tle," Wiggins faltered. "Not wot I can't 'andle it, Mr. 'Olmes."

"You have been quite valuable to me in the past, young man," Holmes said gravely. "It would be more than a shame for you to throw that away."

"I... I wouldn't want to do nuffin' wot dis'ppointed you Mr. 'Olmes."

"Good." Holmes lit his pipe. "What would you like to do with yourself, Wiggins? You can't remain on the streets your whole life."

Wiggins was puzzled by this. He said, "Neva thought o' it, sir. S'pose yer right, though."

"I am." Holmes sounded confident. "I have arranged for your release provided that you enter school and attend regularly. I have also arranged for a private tutor to help you with your studies. You will meet with this tutor down stairs in the visitor's parlor every day after your regular classes."

"Mr. 'Olmes," Wiggins began to whine.

"That's enough of that!" Holmes rose to his full height and the lad cowered back. He had never seen Holmes so adamant about anything. "You will have plenty of time to fritter away with your friends as you like, but in order for you to remain in my service and out of New Gate you will study and study hard. Now what is it that you would like to do with yourself?"

Wiggins sat a very long time thinking. He glanced furtively at Holmes but remained silent.

"You've thought of something," Holmes said. "Tell me."

"Don' laugh, sir," Wiggins said quietly. "I've always thought I might make a good copper, sir."

Stunned, Holmes resumed his seat to consider the ramifications of this. Finally he nodded.

"You, I think, would be quite formidable as an officer of the law, Wiggins," Holmes said seriously. "Your talents would be wasted as a mere constable. With you as an inspector the Metropolitan or even the Yard would become very effective in bringing down criminals. I might even be able to retire one day."

Wiggins smiled with relief. Then he frowned when he thought of all the hours he would have to spend studying. Holmes smiled and placed a hand on the lad's shoulder to reassure him.

After that Christmas Eve Holmes knew well how to keep Christmas. Though he did not greatly change his habits he did visit his brother at least three times a week and often they dined together, sometimes in the company of Dr. Watson. They attended plays and operas in each other's company and it was noted by some members of the Diogenes Club that Mycroft Holmes had lost considerable weight.

To Watson's surprise, Holmes from that year onward insisted that they string a garland from their window and Holmes himself would purchase a small Christmas tree to adorn their sitting room. It was noted at the Yard that Sherlock Holmes began to spend an increased amount of time in the company of Inspectors Lestrade and Gregson and the two young inspector's skills in detecting clues and solving crimes increased markedly.

Holmes did not pursue Alice Howel, though. It was not in his nature to do so. Through inquiries, however, he learned that she had met and married a successful engineer and they had three children together. Holmes made a point of sending her a card every year at Christmas time. She responded in kind.

Only Holmes's closest associates ever noted the subtle change in the Great Detective. Those that knew him well were pleased by it and would privately remark how relieved they were. Holmes did not end his days strapped to a bed alone. Watson did not give in to the temptation of the drug. And as I have noted above, Mycroft lost weight and consequently lived many more years.

**The End**

* * *

Author's Notes: I wish to thank MrsPencil for helping me to edit my American English to British English. She is a talented poet and a true Holmesian.

Originally I had this idea and had planned to take my time with the project. However, I was broke the particular Christmas I wrote this and was unable to send a present to a good friend of mine. Instead, I wrote this story for her to enjoy. My editing was rushed and slapdash, at best. To all those who read this and reviewed with very kind compliments I can only say thank you for overlooking so many typos, dropped words and run on sentences. Hopefully they have been attended to with this draft.


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